


Plaintext, Ciphertext

by missmollyetc



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Incest, Kink-Dominance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A three is always a three and a four can never be anything but a four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plaintext, Ciphertext

One breath too quick to rattle apart on the exhale and he's ready. He can do this. Barring anomaly, a situation does not occur without prior events building to the next point in the sequence. A senseless act _isn't_ senseless because nothing happens without provocation, without a _need_.

Charlie's hand barely fumbles now as he fits the key into the lock. It turns easily, and the door parts from its frame without a single squeak from the hinges. He steps carefully inside the entryway, making sure his tennis shoes scuff the floor and that the door closes with a tiny bark of noise.

After the brightly lit hallway, Don's apartment is pitch black. It takes a second for Charlie's eyes to adjust. He waits, one hand pressed to the fake paneling in front of him, but hears no other sound in the apartment except his own shallow breaths and the din of a studio audience on the TV. He moves away from the door, snapping the lock shut behind him.

Event sequencing occurs throughout daily life, and there's a small store of comfort in that fact as Charlie bends to remove his shoes. He sets them in front of the coat closet, then lays his key ring in the bowl on the hall table and wipes his hands on his jeans. The floor is cold on the soles of his feet, but the contact is somehow grounding.

He can do this.

For the past few weeks Don has been quiet and for the last three days Don has been _gone_. This one was bad, or maybe this case was simple and the three before it were hard. If Charlie were to graph the frequency of these…visits, it would be marked by a stunning lack of available data. Don doesn't consult with him on every case, and he doesn't react well to questions about them. That, at least, is predictable.

Sometimes Don doesn't want questions. Sometimes he wants certainty most of all. Charlie swallows. He squints through the gloom towards the end of the hallway. Gray light flickers from the TV, but that's all the movement he can see.

His t-shirt comes next after the shoes. The thin cotton crumples in his hands as he drags it over his head. He tosses it behind his shoulder and unbuttons his jeans with both hands. The zipper is unnaturally loud when he draws its tab down. He glances towards the living room, but nothing stirs. The TV audience laughs, and Charlie holds his jeans tight to his hips, wincing. The air is sharp, like needles pricking his skin.

If he's misjudged this… He shoves the thought away along with his boxers, stepping out of the pile of denim and cotton surrounding his feet. It's happened a few times before--mostly towards the beginning--and he wound up watching a lot of old baseball footage on ESPN Classic and sacking out on Don's couch, listening to Don's mattress squeak through the open bedroom door. The couch's springs are much more quiet.

He really doesn't think he's misjudged the situation this time. Charlie licks his lips and rubs a hand on the back of his neck. Sluggish heat drips down his spine. He can do this. He _has_ done this. Once an event has occurred, the chances increase that such an event will occur again and again when variables create another situation demanding the same response.

Usually it's Don on his cell, breath and TV babble hissing down the line, but this time David had called the house and Charlie'd picked up the phone. He'd been half-lost in Gurtz's latest article on the relevance of biological hierarchy in determining macroeconomic trends in human development. The man's a hack, but an inventive one.

_"Have you talked to Don lately?"_

"No, um…he's been busy."

It hadn't been a lie. Don's always busy, but for an especially tough case, the definition of 'busy' as applied to Don expands on a geometric plane. This tendency is one Charlie has learned to watch for, but this…this new trend takes some getting used to.

_I just…he's not answering his cell phone. I thought he might be at your place."_

"No, he's not here. Is it--is it something for a case? David?"

"Case's closed."

He follows the sound of the TV audience to the end of the entryway. He turns and finds his brother staring at nothing through the dim flicker of light. Charlie rests his hand on the corner edge of the couch. His heart rate increases. His stomach turns over. His cock stiffens against his thigh.

Don lies stretched out, feet on the armrest and a beer bottle clutched in one drooping fist. He rolls his chin into his chest, painfully blank faced, but his eyes glitter in the dim light, razor-edged under heavy lids.

Charlie's first impulse is to speak. '_I haven't seen you for days_' springs to mind, and '_you look awful_' or even, '_do you want to talk about it?_' He wants to say _something_, but a pattern once created is often unshakable so he swallows away other words until he finds the right--the _appropriate_ ones.

"Stand up," he says.

Don's jaw twitches. His fingers tighten around the bottle. He takes a deep breath, and his teeth gleam beneath his curled lip.

Last month he watched Don tackle a suspect into a chain-linked fence, grinding the man's face into the metal. Last month Don had suddenly been very busy, and Charlie had had to come over for a visit just to get Don to look him in the eyes again.

He knows what to do. Don does a lot to protect Charlie. Charlie can at least return the favor.

"Don," he says in the firm voice he reserves for overconfident freshman. "Stand up."

The mouth tenses. One fist clenches over Don's stomach, and Charlie stops breathing because maybe _this_ time Don'll say 'no,' or 'go away,' or 'I don't need you--this anymore.' Don often defines a sequence of events even as he collapses their structure.

Charlie stands very still and the beer bottle wavers, then thunks to the floor. Slowly, Don's body folds upwards, shoulders and chest leave the couch before his feet lift from the armrest. Muscles lengthen and bunch underneath the dark fabric of his dress shirt and slacks. Charlie swallows. His fingertips tingle. Don is very strong, even in this.

He waits until Don stands in the space between the coffee table and the couch. His mouth opens and Don looks over. His eyes carve lines down Charlie's throat, tearing inside without lifting a hand. Charlie's chin jerks up. He fights the urge to cover himself.

"Go…"

His voice fades in the rush of heat through his body as Don fixates on the movements of his mouth. The corners of Don's lips begin to curl again. He glides forward, and Charlie holds his ground.

"Go to the bedroom," he manages, voice an octave lower to match the flow of blood sinking into his dick.

Don stops moving. His eyes flicker. Charlie almost winces. This must have been _really_ bad.

"Go to the bedroom," he repeats.

Don's legs quickly bring him to the edge of the couch. He's quiet when he walks, which Charlie never really notices outside the apartment. His body turns as he passes by, sliding his front all along Charlie's side. The contact drives sparks directly into Charlie's body. He twists his head so Don can't see the effect, but he can't control the stuttering breath escaping his open mouth.

Don's chuckle has a ragged edge, and Charlie's hand is up and around Don's throat before his mind remembers what he's supposed to do. He _can_ do this. He holds Don's windpipe between his thumb and forefinger, fragile skin catching in the torn edges of his bitten nails. Don freezes so fast his muscles vibrate from the strain.

It's the bit they both have to get over, where Don doesn't want help and Charlie maybe can't give it, but it always ends the same way because Don's gotten used to Charlie having an answer and Charlie maybe _does_. It gets easier. After all, everything they're doing, they've done before.

He can do this. Charlie keeps his hold, squeezing as he turns to look into Don's face. The sharp edge begins to fade from his eyes, the pupils dilating. The pulse under Charlie's fingers flutters. Don's mouth is parted for air. Charlie can feel the small puff against his cheek. He licks his lips. He could kiss Don _now_, they're barely two inches apart. He could keep Don right where he is, just kiss him until his knees give way. Until the swell of Don's erection against his hip aligns with his own stiff cock.

But Don doesn't want kisses. Kisses are for later. He can do this.

He digs a nail into the space between Don's collar and his skin. Draws a welt, waiting for the angry hiss before letting go. He scratches over Don's windpipe, red lines disappearing beneath the black shirt.

"Bedroom," he says.

Best he can manage right then, seeing the whites of Don's eyes, feeling the tremors rocking his brother's body. It's strangely cold, watching Don back away. He pivots, averting a crash into the easy chair, and the firm line of his back is cracking down the middle as he passes the threshold of his room. Don steps to the side and disappears from the doorway.

Charlie drags air into his lungs. His cock is hot against his thigh. He can do this.

Following Don into the bedroom is easy. As he enters, Don stirs to his right. He's still standing, but his head is bowed and his hands are limp at his sides. A long, wide strip of fabric lies across the bed.

The strip is white linen, like a bandage, but hemmed like a scarf. Charlie picks it up in both hands, shaking the fold out so both ends dangle to the floor. Every time he sees the cloth, he reminds himself to ask where Don got it, and at no time afterwards does it seem appropriate. A doesn't disappear once B is written on the board, after all, and what is unspoken in this situation is never spoken of outside its perimeter.

"Hands," he says, without looking up from the cloth.

It's smooth against his fingers, a little cool. He brings it to his nose and inhales fabric softener. Every visit the strip is clean, ready to be used. Does Don hide it in his laundry after each time? Does he wash it by hand?

When he looks over, Don's arms are straight behind his back, shoulders hunched with tension. His head is still hanging. Charlie frowns, feels his mouth crumple just a little, and closes his eyes.

He can do this.

Charlie opens his eyes. He steps forward, slips behind Don, and settles the middle of the strip directly underneath Don's wrists.

"Cryptography is the science of hiding the meaning of a message. The two main branches of this are codes and ciphers. All language," he begins, "is a type of code, designed to impart knowledge from one person to another."

He circles Don's right wrist twice, fabric tight, but not harsh against the skin.

"A code is when a word or phrase is replaced by another word, or phrase, or symbol. Understanding is based on pre-agreed information."

He wraps the base of Don's right hand, trusses the thumb into his palm.

"I don't speak in codes."

He tugs once on the fabric, sharply, and a shiver ripples through Don's body. Charlie licks his lips. Blood beats in his temples.

"A _cipher_ is an alternative to a code. It acts on a more fundamental level, changing each individual letter rather than an entire word."

The soft fabric is drawn carefully around Don's right fingers, binding them tight. Charlie begins to retrace his path. Don's breath picks up speed.

"I speak in ciphers. Repeat."

The breath pauses. Charlie glances up from his work. His eyes narrow.

_"Repeat."_

"You…you speak in ciphers."

Don's voice shakes. Charlie continues anyway. His heart pounds in his chest. It's important, _so_ important he get this part right.

"In my cipher, a number becomes a letter. I _encrypt_ my numbers so that you can understand them. This is called substitution."

Charlie ties the remainder of the right half of fabric to the four inch band between Don's wrists. He wraps the left half of the strip twice around Don's left wrist. Don takes a deep breath.

"All my words are made of letters which are actually numbers."

He binds the left thumb into Don's palm. The fingers above it tremble and start to curl.

"I speak in numbers. Repeat."

"You speak in numbers."

Don's voice fades at the end, lost in the sudden tensing of his body as Charlie circles his fingers with the fabric and starts back down again.

"A number cannot be anything but what it represents," Charlie says. "A three is a three and a four cannot be anything but a four. There is no room for falsehood. Repeat."

"There is no room for falsehood." Don swallows, and Charlie watches the muscles in his back twitch.

Charlie wraps once more around the left wrist and then ties the remaining fabric to the strip between Don's bound hands. The knots hit at the small of his back. Charlie tugs on them and Don bucks. He fights the knots, but Charlie cups his other hand over Don's cock, hard and trapped underneath his slacks. A groan, deep and hard-won escapes, and Charlie steps closer.

"A number cannot lie. Repeat."

"A number…cannot lie."

He steps closer again, hand clenching on the knots. His cock pushes against the tight curve of Don's ass. He lays his head in the middle of Don's shoulder blades.

"I speak in numbers. Repeat."

"You speak in numbers." Don exhales in a rush so quick it sounds painful.

He can do this. Charlie lets go. He steps back.

"Knees."

Don _crashes_ to the floor, a jumble of muscle near the foot of the bed. He takes a shuddering breath, then another. The thin edge of a whine escapes him. His shoulders hunch and retract. Eyes closed, shirt in disarray, and pants tented, Don is as locked into his pattern as Charlie is into his. The progression of each sequence leads further to its culmination and Charlie moves to sit on the bed. He spreads his legs, cock streaking liquid across his thigh, and shifts to the edge of the mattress.

He grips Don's chin firmly, tilting it up and shaking it back and forth slightly. Don shudders, breaths in deep, and opens his eyes. He looks at Charlie. Charlie's hips thrust into the air. He rubs his thumb along Don's bottom lip. He's so…so _Don_. It takes a moment before he can put together the next part of the sequence.

"If a number can't lie," Charlie says finally, "and I speak in numbers, then everything I say is true."

He slides his hand from Don's chin to the side of his head, scratching into the short hair around his ear. He pulls forward until Don's breath steams against Charlie's inner thigh.

"Everything I say is true. Repeat."

"Everything you say is true," Don says.

He's panting now, mouth open for air. Charlie pulls again until the tip of his cock enters Don's mouth, and then he doesn't have to pull at all. Don's lips close over the head, clever tongue circling the tip.

Charlie bites back a moan as Don takes more in. Slick heat surrounds him, narrowing his focus, then Don _groans_ and Charlie looks down the length of his back to his bound hands, caught in the dip just above his ass. He thrusts up into Don's mouth, head falling back.

Oh, this is--this is…sequence. He has a sequence to finish.

"You were brave enough. You did, oh god, everything you were supposed to do."

A hard suck, and Charlie puts his free hand behind him for balance. It's so hard not to tighten his grip on Don's head and drive that mouth down onto his cock, but he doesn't. That's not what he's here for.

"Sm--smart enough." He gulps. "You were smart enough."

Don slides his mouth down to the head and back up, working him like Charlie is air, water, and food all in one go. Sparks begin to fly underneath his skin, coalescing in his spine and shooting downwards. He braces his feet on the floor and thrusts. Don's mouth opens wide, taking it, taking everything in, words and cock and _numbers_ because if Charlie knows one thing it's what a number stands for. Don knows it. He _knows_ it, just like he knows that Charlie will do anything for him except lie because Charlie's never been good at that and Charlie doesn't spend time on things he isn't good at.

"Nothing that happened is your fault."

He gasps and Don pokes his tongue into his circumcision scar, running the tip right along the slight ridge. Charlie's vision briefly whites out.

"Nothing…_nothing._"

His mouth falls open on a groan when he comes, hand leaving Don's face to grip the quilt. His hips cant off the mattress, body arcing as Don swallows, making little choked moans into Charlie's groin. Don nurses until Charlie's cock softens and then holds it in his mouth, resting his forehead on Charlie's inner thigh.

Charlie gulps air into his lungs, aftershocks jolting his muscles into action. The sequence is unfinished. He wraps his hand around Don's left shoulder and pulls him off, sliding to the floor at the same time. He squeezes Don's cock through his pants, and Don's head rolls into the crook of Charlie's neck, moan reverberating through his skin.

"Nothing that happened is your fault. Repeat."

The slacks are old, button releasing at the faintest touch.

"Nothing that happened is my fault."

The final word hitches as Charlie draws down the zipper. Don is so hard, his cock lifts from his pants by itself.

No underwear. A recent phenomenon.

The tip is slick and red, so Charlie circles it with one finger. Hot breath escapes down his neck. Charlie wraps his hand around the base of Don's cock.

"Repeat."

"Nothing that happened is my fault."

Firm strokes, hard strokes, but most of all fast, because Don is rocking up into Charlie's fist. He's shaking, pressing so hard into Charlie's chest that he can feel the individual buttons on Don's shirt.

"Repeat."

"Nothing…nothing that hap…pened is my fault."

"Everything I say is true. Repeat."

"Everything you say is true," rushes out on a groan.

He twists his hand, clutching tight so that every thrust of Don's body penetrates into his. He's straddling Don's thigh. The hand on Don's shoulder detaches to take hold of the knots between Don's hands. A shaky breath tells him Don's felt the sudden extra constriction.

"_Nothing_ is your fault," he whispers into the ear beneath his lips.

Don groans, bucking into Charlie's fist.

"Nothing is your fault."

Faster now, the end of the sequence is closing in on them with every stroke of Charlie's fist. He inhales, imprinting the smell of Don and sex to store away for the next visit. He can do this. He _can._

"Everything I say is true."

"Everything…" Don moans. "Everything…"

"Repeat!"

Don jerks twice, face burrowing into Charlie's neck, and comes. Hot liquid flows between them, onto Charlie's body, and staining Don's shirt and pants as it was meant to. Dense muscles lock and release, shuddering in Charlie's grip.

Sloppy kisses line the curve of Charlie's collarbone as Don works his way across his chest. Charlie holds Don's bound hands to the small of his back, and lifts his chin to the ceiling.

"Everything you say is true," Don mumbles, laving up the Adam's apple to push inside Charlie's mouth.


End file.
